Thirteen Days
by Silvertails Tora
Summary: A collection of Russiamerica ones shots written for the Cuban Missile Crisis event on livejournal. Most are pretty cavity-inducing, really.
1. Look to the Sky

Hello! The Russiamerica community on lj had an event for the Cuban Missile Crisis that included a prompt for each day. I wasn't able to write something for all of them, but the ones that I ended up filling will all be posted here as chapters. They are all stand-alone stories.

**Title:** I Am Become Death

**Prompt:** Look to the sky

**Rating:** PG

**Summary: **The missiles are on the way to wipe out Moscow and DC. Russia and America talk, and still don't get anywhere.

* * *

The sky has gone dark, hanging like a shroud over Washington. America's citizens have poured out in a panic already, abandoned cars and buses on the road, left their doors hanging open. Even the looters didn't hang around long. If there are any of his children left here, they're not going anywhere. Outside there is a still, deathly silence, surreal for a city that only hours before teemed with life. America doesn't know where they've gone, if they're safe, if they'll survive. It doesn't seem to matter much right now. Not much does, actually. Maybe it's the radiation.

The phone in his hand, now there's something that matters. Russia's on the other end of that phone. It's not their red phone, although the symbolism would be appropriate, it's just a phone off a secretary's desk in the State Department, which was the first government building he'd been near when New York was hit.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Russia's voice sounds tinny and far away, and America doesn't know if it's him or the phone. It got hard to hear after Boston went.

"Not as much as it does for you, I bet," he returns, almost offhand. He's imagining Russia's skin covered in blackened, charred spots, little love spots. He's got them too, of course, dark fingerprints mapping out all his vital points. When he wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes, he can almost smell Berlin again in the smoke of his own ruins. They'd left marks on each other then, too.

"No. It doesn't bother me." Russia says, but he's lying. America knows because he can hear how heavy Russia's breathing, _haa, haa, haa._ It's almost like he's laughing. America thinks it's funny too. Earlier, several uniformed men had come to escort him to the President's temporary headquarters in Virginia. What they hadn't understood was that _he wasn't going anywhere_. He's not about to run from his capital, not even when an ICBM is speeding towards it. There's still some tiny part of America that believes that if Russia really wants to, he can stop the deadly little dart from reaching its target.

"It's going to bother you a whole lot when the next one hits Moscow," America purrs into the receiver. There's a part of him that believes he can stop that, too, if Russia asks him to right now.

"No, I don't think it will," Russia says. The line is silent for a moment, and then he adds, "Because when your missile gets here, there will be nothing left anyway."

It takes America a moment, and then another, because he had been so sure for an instant – only an instant, really – that Russia was going to—to panic, to beg, ask him to stop. His voice sounds weak even to his own ears. "…What?"

"My last missile, America," Russia says, and a thrill runs down America's spine at the way he growls the name. "There is one headed for Washington now, but the last is for me. I won't let you have this."

There's a moment where America does nothing but listen, as though he's expecting Russia to laugh, to admit that he's bluffing, _anything_ – and then he rips the telephone cord out of the wall. The plastic receiver cracks and splinters in his hand, and he throws it to the ground with all the force he can muster.

It's utterly silent in the ghost town of his capital, just as it will be (_soon, too soon_) when the missile hits it. America staggers outside and onto the steps. The poison is starting to make its way into his veins, and it's becoming harder and harder to move. He tangles his legs beneath him and collapses halfway down the stairs, eyes fixed on the dark skies that soon death will be raining down from.

Somewhere in Moscow, he imagines, Russia is looking at that same sky, watching as his own missile comes to strike his heart into dust. Somewhere, Russia's eyes are open as the blast rips through him. Somewhere Russia is burning. He will burn too, soon enough, and it will be alone, without even the satisfaction of knowing Russia is dying with him. He wonders, with all the dust in the air, if he'll even be able to see it coming.

The sky is dark and somber, and it hangs over Washington like a veil to the other side of nothing. And until Russia's last gift comes to take him away, he'll sit here and just watch the world go by—


	2. Seesaw Picture

**Title: **A Heavy Subject

**Prompt: **http : /www . toonpool . com/user/356/files/cold_war_again_201155 . jpg

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** There's a very important question about Russia and America that must be answered.

In other words, unfunny. But hey, I tried.

* * *

"It's definitely Russia," China said above the din of the conference room.

"That's ridiculous," England countered immediately. "You don't eat out with America enough; you wouldn't know. All those burgers have to go _somewhere_."

"He works out a lot, though, doesn't he?" Prussia interrupted, "My vote goes to Russia too. Why do you think he wears that coat all the time?"

"I will have you all know that I have seen them both in their natural states," France purred, "And that they both have very fine bodies."

Denmark snorted. "Yeah, and how long ago was that? I'm with England, that kid inhales crap like it's actual food or something."

France looked affronted. "Just a few decades ago Russia and I—"

"Um, I-I really would rather not hear about what you and my brother have done, please." Ukraine's face had turned bright pink. Next to her Belarus was staring eerily at France.

"I can't believe we're debating this." Germany muttered to himself, still at his seat at the head of the table. He'd even made a powerpoint for this meeting, too. Beside him sat Japan, back absolutely rigid. Germany suspected he was too shocked at the topic of conversation to really function effectively.

"_Has_ anyone slept with either of them recently?" Spain asked.

Poland waved a hand dismissively. "Tch, as if. Can't you see that they're, like, totally all over each other?" There was a general murmur of assent and some disappointed looks around the room.

"If only America's brother was here," England mused. He looked around hopefully, but a scan of the other nations didn't reveal the country he was searching for. In the back of the room, Canada rolled his eyes.

"It's not I see him naked all that often," he told no one in particular, "although… he does fit into my jeans." Unsettled by this last thought, Canada lifted his shirt and pinched his stomach. Maybe he should spend some more time on the ice this winter.

Across the room, France seemed to sense that someone was undressing, but try as he might, he couldn't catch sight of anyone's bare midriff. He sank into his chair, feeling vaguely let down. Fortunately, Spain's chair was next to his.

"Wasn't America going around recently asking for diet advice?" Estonia asked as Spain's shirt went flying.

Finland was laughing. "Well, I doubt Russia even knows what the word 'diet' means," he snorted.

"Hold on," England said suddenly. His eyes lit up, and a devious smile had curled its way onto his face. "Lithuania's worked in both their houses, hasn't he? He would know."

As one, the assembled countries turned to look at the Baltic nation sitting by the window. Lithuania looked startled, and glanced pleadingly at Poland, who didn't appear to notice. Possibly he simply didn't care.

"Yes, I did work for them both... Of course, that was some time ago!" he hastened to add as the other nations leaned in expectantly.

"It wasn't that long ago," Turkey said, "C'mon, just tell us what size pants they wear and that'll be it."

"I-I really don't think…" Lithuania began, but he was drowned out by a chorus of other voices. "No, I really don't think I should…" he protested weakly, as the noise level grew higher.

Germany had had enough. Not only had he forgotten his noise-cancelling headphones, but his boss had asked him to cut down on the headache medication. He grabbed a notebook out of his briefcase and banged it on the table, getting the others' attention. "Just tell them which one weighs more so we can be done with this," he ground out.

Lithuania still looked uncertain, but Germany was unwavering. "Well," he began, "I still don't think it's right to tell you this sort of thing, but…"

* * *

In the broom closet in the hallway, America was trying to loosen his tie, breathe through his nose, and make out with Russia all at once. Admittedly, this wasn't easy, but sometimes heroes had to take on the tough jobs. And sometimes heroes really needed the air to cool down a little, because it would seriously suck to pass out in the middle of closet time. Russia pulled back to kiss his neck, and oh, that was nice and cool. America sucked in air in great, unsteady breaths.

"You don't think they're looking for us, do you?" He managed, turning his head a little to look at the side of Russia's head. Russia growled a little negative sound that reverberated up America's throat.

"Really, though," America said as his tie was whipped off. The first three buttons on his shirt didn't last much longer. "You don't think they noticed we're missing?"

Russia detached himself from America's skin long enough to mutter, "No," before continuing his voyage south.

"No?" America echoed, although at this point he had mostly forgotten what the question was. Russia was wearing too many clothes. He wondered for a moment where his own shirt had gone.

"They're not talking about anything important anyway." Russia informed him, efficiently unbuttoning his pants.

"Oh. Okay."

* * *

When the two nations stumbled into the conference room an hour later, there was only carnage left form the meeting. "I think these are Spain's." America said, picking up a pair of vividly yellow and red boxers off the floor.

"Germany's notes," Russia volunteered, flipping through the papers scattered across the table.

"Hold on, what's that?" America fished out a brightly-colored page from the pile. "What the… is this us?" The page contained a crudely-drawn picture of himself and Russia on a seesaw, with a large question mark hanging over the middle. "What the hell do you think they were talking about?"

He dropped the page in surprise as suddenly he was hoisted onto the conference table. "I don't really care," Russia said, and just like that he'd lost his shirt again.

Well. Russia was right. It probably wasn't that important. He did wonder, a little bit, why exactly there had been a circle around him in the drawing, but in the end, he found that he really didn't care either.


	3. Cuban Sunrise

**Title:** Unbend

**Prompt:** Cuban Sunrise

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** Cuddling on the beach.

CAVITIES.

* * *

It was not quite dawn yet. The sky had just started to lighten, turning the downy grey clouds ever so slightly pink. America was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he spread out the blanket over the sand.

"I know it's not actually Cuba, but this was the best I could do," he said, and broke off with a yawn. His voice was charming, scratchy with sleep. "Anyway, you said you wanted to visit Puerto Rico sometime, right?"

"I'm perfectly happy with this," Russia assured him, "It's beautiful out here."

America shot him a drowsy grin over his shoulder. "Thanks. I keep saying Eva should become a state already, but she seems to like things the way they are. It's kind of nice to come down here and get away from everything once in a while, you know?"

"Mmm hmm," Russia hummed as he handed America the two thermoses he'd filled that morning, one tea and one coffee. It _was_ nice here, too. The temperature was cool, but pleasant. The only sounds were the gentle lap of waves against the shore and the occasional seagull, and they had the beach all to themselves. Maybe it was just that no one else was up this early, but Russia suspected that America had pulled some strings to keep anyone from interrupting them.

America settled down on the blanket with a content sigh. He patted the space next to him invitingly, and Russia sat next to him, scooting close so that their shoulders were touching. Russia's sandals were full of sand already, and it seemed silly to keep them on. He set them to the side and buried his feet in the sand, still cool from the night. America giggled a little and copied him. A little war emerged where they both tried to bury each others' ankles in sand using their feet as shovels, until America, still shaking with laughter, leaned over and rested his head on Russia's shoulder. Russia pressed little kisses into his hair and curled his arm around America's waist.

America snuggled himself in a little closer. His voice was slightly muffled when he spoke. "I'm glad we do this, you know."

Russia rested his cheek against America's head and looked out over the water. "What, watch the sunrise together?" he asked teasingly. The wind blew a few stray tendrils of hair across his face.

"No. Well, yeah. But you know what I mean. I'm glad we do this every year."

"Yes, I know." They'd made a tradition of spending time together every year around this time to commemorate the time they'd almost, but not quite, ended up killing each other. At first it had been out of a kind of fear, a reminder not to let things ever get so far again. Over the years it had turned into something much more pleasant, though, more of a reminder that even when things were at their worst, they'd still been able to work out their problems. Sometimes they went out for dinner, other times it was a vacation or just a quiet night in. It had been America's idea to actually visit Cuba this year, but Cuba himself hadn't been too keen on the idea.

Above them, the sky had started to fill with streaks of purple and pink. The water that in a few hours would be a breathtaking crystal blue reflected the bright colors. America shifted and disentangled himself from Russia enough to pick up his thermos and sip at his coffee. Russia breathed in deeply. He didn't care much for the taste of coffee, but he liked the smell, and America only drank it black like this in the morning. If he had coffee any other time of the day it would be something with cream, flavored syrup, and a strange name; something Russia had never understood.

"You want to lie down and watch the rest?" America asked, screwing the lid back on the thermos and placing it to the side.

Russia felt a smile sneak onto his face. "Still tired?" he asked, leaning back onto the blanket.

"Yeah," America admitted easily, lying down next to him. "This is nice, but it's still way too early for me to function."

Russia rolled onto his side and curled himself around America, tugging the other nation back into him. America happily complied, tucking his head beneath Russia's chin. America's hair smelled clean and crisp, a pine-forest smell. He was warm and solid against Russia's chest, and Russia snaked an arm around him to hold him closer.

Slowly, the sky changed from pink to red, and then from red to gold. At some point America fell asleep, but Russia watched the sun gild his face in soft golden light. Later, America would want to do a million things on the beach – swimming, shell-hunting, maybe volleyball – but sometimes Russia thought it was nice to have moments like this. It was at these times, after all, that he could really appreciate just how lucky he was.


	4. Duck and Cover

Forgot to mention, guys, but if you review could you do it by "chapter" and not all at once? It's easier to sort things and to see what you like the most then! :)

**Title:** When You See the Flash...

**Prompt:** Duck and Cover

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** America has some unpleasant dreams.

I spent far too long on youtube watching old 50's duck and cover videos while writing this...

* * *

Russia pushed open the door of his home with a sigh, leaning back against it for a moment as it closed behind him. He hated having to go into work while America was visiting him, but his boss had insisted today. It seemed like once they'd gotten him in, though, everyone had had something to ask him about or to show him, and he'd been kept busy for hours with dozens of smaller issues. By the time he realized what time it was, it was late enough that he figured America hadn't been waiting up for him. America was an independent person and he usually was okay with being left on his own for a while, but Russia still felt guilty. It was hard enough to find time together normally without making their visits susceptible to interruptions.

He loosened his tie and left it on the hall table with his briefcase. As he shrugged his suit jacket off and draped it over the railing of the stairs, he reflected that tomorrow he'd have to come around and pick all of this up again, but he was tired enough that he couldn't bring himself to care much. He missed the days when he could rely on Lithuania to take care of everything around the house and not have to worry.

The hallway creaked as he padded down it. All the lights were off already, which wasn't really surprising. America tended to be a night owl, but he was probably still sleeping off the jet lag. Russia eased open the door to his bedroom, the soft sigh of America's breath greeting him. As usual, Russia could barely tell where America began and the covers ended. America's love of snuggling was one of his more endearing habits.

Russia didn't think much about flipping the light switch on. America usually slept like a log, and he tended to leave his shoes scattered on the floor, in the perfect places for Russia to trip over them and break his neck. When the light came on, though, there was a sudden and violent reaction from the huddle on the bed. Without warning, America shot out from under the sheets and rolled to the floor, curling in a fetal position with his hands tightly covering his head. He lay there trembling for a moment or two, shoulders taut, before Russia collapsed to his knees next to him.

A single blue eye peaked out at him from under America's hand, the pupil contracting rapidly at the change in lighting. "…We're still alive?" America's voice was tight and low, charged with the tension that was running through his body.

Russia's chest tightened for a moment. "Yes," he said quietly, "we're both still alive." America relaxed a little at this, pulling his hands away from his face and uncurling his legs. "You had that dream again, didn't you?" Russia asked, watching him.

America bit his lip and didn't answer, shifting so that he was seated and leaning against the bed. A thought seemed to strike him then and he laughed a little, gesturing vaguely at his legs. "I don't know why I thought this would make me feel any better, about dying, you know, if anything ever had happened. But look at me, how many years later and I'm still doing it. Old habits die hard, I guess."

There was silence for a few moments, then Russia stood, extending a hand to pull America to his feet. "Come on," he said roughly, "I will make you some soup or something." He didn't like to think about America practicing duck and cover, America crouching under a desk in terror, America curled up when the blast hit—

America's hand slipped into his and those thoughts were shoved away forcibly. They were both fine, and America, nightmares aside, wasn't about to die anytime soon. Russia kissed him on the cheek, both to comfort him and as an apology for coming home late and startling him. Actually, he hadn't stopped for dinner, and soup was starting to sound pretty good.

"I will get you something warm to drink, too," Russia promised as they walked down the hallway, their sides brushing and their hands tangled together. "It is what my sister would do for me whenever I had bad dreams."

Of course, that meant he had to spend the next hour relating stories from his childhood, but it was worth it to see the carefree, relaxed look that spread over America's face.


	5. Gorbachev Quote

**Title:** Out of This World

**Prompt: ** "If what you have done yesterday still looks big to you, you haven't done much today." ~Mikhail Gorbachev

**Rating**: PG

**Summary: **The Shuttle-Mir Program is off to a great start, and America and Russia make awesome space nerds.

You know, I've started to realize that coming up with good titles is just not a talent of mine.

* * *

"Knock knock!" America said when Russia answered the door. His smile nearly split his face in two.

"You saw, then?" Russia asked as he moved aside to let America in. Spring hadn't quite set in yet, and it was still uncomfortably cold in Moscow.

"Of course I saw!" America was bursting with energy, dancing around like a puppy on his first trip to the park. He pulled off his coat all at once and threw his arms around Russia, a little breathless laughter rushing through him.

Russia wouldn't have minded staying like that, really, but America was too excited to be still, and Russia let him go reluctantly.

"Come on, I want to see what they're saying about it." America grabbed his hand and dragged him through the house to the living room, where Russia's TV was still going, showing a repeat of the footage of the space shuttle _Atlantis_ docking on _Mir_. They ended up sprawled across Russia's couch, comfortable despite the occasional leg or arm dangling off the edge of the cushions.

America frowned a little in concentration as the news gave an overview of the program, showing footage of several space shuttles launching. There were brief biographies of all the cosmonauts and an overview of the training they'd had to undergo prior to entering space. America seemed to be following it pretty well, although when the reporters used colloquialisms or made jokes Russia would explain the phrase to him.

Eventually the news moved on to cover other things, and they both fell silent. America's gaze was fixed on the window, lost in thought. _'Staring into space,'_ Russia thought to himself, biting back a smile.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

America started. "Eh, I was just—what do you think it's going to be next?"

"Well, they still have some things to work out…"

America shook his head, looking frustrated. "No, not that. I mean... I mean, what do you think we're going to do next? Like, there was exploring the sea, and then it was flying, and now space, so what's next? What comes after this?"

"It might be a little early to worry about that, don't you think?" Russia asked softly, sitting up. "The sky won't run out of stars for you, America."

America gave a short little laugh. "Nah, it's not that I'm worrying about it, really, I just… always like to have a goal in mind, you know? Always something bigger." A thought struck him. "Hey, what about exploring other solar systems? You think we'll be able to do that soon?"

"I don't see why not." Russia studied him, admiring the shine that had suddenly leapt into America's eyes that the prospect. "The only thing we'd have to worry about is time, and you and I have plenty of that."

America's head flopped back onto the couch cushions. "Other planets…" he muttered to himself. Then, louder, "What do you think they'll look like?"

Russia settled back too, his back pressing into a pillow. "They'd have to have some water on them. So…blue? Maybe ice."

"Mmmhm. What if they get water in a different way from us? Like…" America's hands waved in front of him as he explained, "like what if most of the water is trapped beneath the crust of the planet, and only comes out through geysers? That would look cool."

"Maybe something with canyons," Russia suggested, "Millions of years of water running though them and the surface would look like a fingerprint."

"Yeah, awesome!" America frowned suddenly, "We'd have trouble landing on one like that, though."

"We'd just have to be careful," Russia told him, shaking his head. "It could be done."

"And then we could take water samples—"

"Analyze the soil composition—"

"Yeah, yeah! See? We're totally the best astronauts. I bet we could even have space colonies!"

Russia smirked at this last. "You want to make space colonies with me?" he asked teasingly.

It took America a moment or two to get it, but when he did he tossed a pillow at Russia's head. "You know what I meant, you freak."

Well, Russia couldn't just leave that unanswered. The pillow went sailing back. America retaliated by catching it and smacking Russia's leg with it. The scuffle quickly escalated into a full-blown pillow fight. It was only after a solid half-hour of wrestling for control of the available pillows that they decided to call it a draw, and America collapsed on top of Russia in the middle of the pile of ammo.

"Thanks for working with me on this," America told him, head resting on Russia's shoulder. "It's, you know, it's good for us to be doing stuff together. And it's nicer being with just you than with everyone."

Russia laughed a little, fingers brushing absently through America's hair. "Yes, the next step will be interesting," he mused. "But—thank you as well. For—" He looked away, flushing.

"Don't worry about it." America stretched languidly. "Hey, we're gonna do more of this, right? The whole going into space together thing?"

"Of course," Russia assured him, "After all, how else are we going to explore everything?"

* * *

The Shuttle-Mir program (1995) involved only America and Russia and was basically a combination of making nice after the end of the Soviet Union and of practicing for the start of the International Space Station.  
After the end of the USSR, Russia didn't really have enough money to continue his space program, so America funded a lot of the Shuttle-Mir Program, while Russia provided a lot of equipment, helped train the astronauts, etc.  
Wikipedia tells me that while astronauts and cosmonauts are the same thing, Russians in space are generally called cosmonauts, while Americans in space are called astronauts. Politics + media + space stuff = weird.


	6. Quarantine

Just one left, guys!

**Title: **No Free Lunch

**Prompt: **Quarantine

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** Russia is sick. With the _red disease_.

**Warnings:** BAD ECONOMICS JOKES

* * *

All Russia wanted was to eat breakfast in peace. But it seemed like ever since Poland had started living with him, inevitably every meal would be interrupted in some way.

"Something big's on the doorstep," Poland was telling him now, sitting backwards on a chair.

Russia ignored him.

"It could be a bomb," Poland snapped his gum loudly. Where he had gotten gum from, Russia had no idea, but it was there nonetheless, and it was a gaudy pink. "Or, like, a present. Do you think there's anyone who would send you a present?"

The newspaper headlines today were dull, unfortunately. Russia flipped listlessly to the second page.

"Hey, maybe it's for me. Like the mail!"

Wait, what? "Who did you get mail from?" _And why didn't I see it first?_

Poland drummed a tune on the back of the chair. "Wish I could tell you."

There was a long pause where Russia stared at him threateningly and Poland ignored him for perhaps just longer than was really safe.

"Liet took all of them," he said, shrugging, "Can't help you."

"_All_ of them?"

"Yup. All of them." Poland was examining his nails now. Clearly, he wasn't going to volunteer anything else. Russia stood and swept out of the room, intent on finding the Baltic nation. He didn't have to go far. In the hallway, Prussia had Lithuania pinned against the wall. One hand was planted firmly on the wall next to Lithuania's head, trapping him, and the other was ripping open an envelope.

Russia cleared his throat, and instantly Prussia froze. Lithuania snatched the envelope out of his hand and slipped away from him. He handed over the stack of mail to Russia silently, looking guiltily at his feet. Russia flipped through the stack briefly. There was one for every member of his household, all addressed in the same illegible scrawl. Immediately he could see why Prussia had been interested in the envelopes, they were marked with postage from Bonn. Well. America could at least have been more subtle about it.

His name had been written in red ink. How clever. Inside was a brightly colored card. 'Turn that frown upside down!' said the cartoon puppy on the front. Russia flipped it open, and was greeted by more of the bright block lettering. 'Feel better soon!' the card read, and at the bottom America had signed it.

Russia closed the card and looked up. Prussia looked just as bewildered as he felt. A quick check revealed that the other envelopes all held similar cards. Russia handed them back to Lithuania absently as he headed out to the front door. Just as Poland had said, there was something big sitting there; a box, also postmarked from Bonn. The stamp on the top told Russia that it had shipped only yesterday.

He carried it inside to the kitchen. Poland seemed to have gotten the idea that perhaps he should make himself scarce, because he was gone when Russia went in. He cut off the tape and cautiously folded open the flaps of the box, peering in at what looked like...a container of something liquid.

"What did he send me?" Russia wondered out loud to himself as he lifted the bowl out of the package. Well, there was one way to find out. Russia lifted the bowl and headed up to his study, nudging the door shut behind him. Once he'd deposited it safely on his desk, he picked up the red phone and waited. America was a little slow answering.

"What is it?"

"What? Look, are you about to launch something at me?"

Russia pulled back to look incredulously at the receiver.

"No, of course not. Why—"

"Then I can't talk to you."

There was a click as America hung up. Russia shrugged and set the phone down. Oh well, it probably wouldn't kill him to open the lid. He pulled it off cautiously, only to catch the distinctive smell of chicken soup wafting off the mixture.

Well, it was a wrong to waste food. Twenty minutes and a warm stovetop later, Russia had settled himself back in his office, soup in hand.

He picked up the phone again. America answered quickly this time.

"I told you I can't talk to you."

"Is it poisoned?"

"No." America hung up.

Russia tried a little, bracing himself, but it appeared that either America had inherited France's cooking skills or it was store-bought. He sniffed at the soup again. No, definitely store-bought.

America picked up right away.

"Why did you send me get well cards, chicken soup, and," Russia peered into the box, "orange juice?"

"It's to cure you."

"Oh. Am I sick?"

"Yes," America told him solemnly, "You're infected with communism, and I have to cure you and all your buddies."

"That's nice of you," Russia told him. "The soup is good."

"It tastes like freedom," America informed him.

"I always wondered what freedom tasted like."

"Well, now you know!" There was a pause. "So are you ready for economic change now?"

"No." Russia fished through the rest of the box. Ooh, crackers.

"What? But-but the taste of freedom!" It was almost like the time Russia had told America he didn't care much for hamburgers – but not quite as bad.

"America, you are the land of the free, aren't you?" Yes, it was definitely better with the crackers.

"And the home of the brave, and other non-red things, yeah."

Russia popped a Saltine into his mouth, thinking for a moment. "So do you also taste like freedom?"

"I—what?"

"Because that would mean you would taste like this soup, right? That would be a little strange."

Another pause, and then America hung up on him again. Too bad, but Russia still had his chicken soup, which really wasn't half bad. And people said there was no such thing as free lunch.


	7. Costumes

Last one, guys, it's been fun!

**Title: **Sharp-Dressed Man

**Prompt: **Costumes

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Basically Russia thinks America looks hot in a suit.

The prompt was "costumes", but it strikes me that a suit is also a kind of costume, wouldn't you say?

* * *

"I hate these things," America complained.

Russia pulled his tie into a loop with the soft _whrrsh _of silk on silk and studied it critically. His fingers skidded up the length of the fabric, smoothing it, and he tugged it a little to the right to center it on America's collar.

"They're just so stuffy," America continued, letting Russia fuss over him. "I mean, I didn't like it when England made me wear them, why would I like them now?"

"I think they look handsome on you," Russia said as he folded America's collar down crisply over the jacket. His thumb skidded out briefly to stroke along America's neck.

America shivered a little involuntarily. "Well, hey, thanks—I mean, they look banging on you too—I just wish we didn't have to wear them all the time, you know? I mean, my bosses didn't used to care what I showed up in as long as I did my thing—hell, half the time in the 60's I'd be stoned with, like, fricking daisy wreathes in my hair and my bell-bottoms plastered to my ass and LBJ was just, 'don't make a habit of this, Alfred'—"

Russia chuckled a little as he smoothed down the front of America's jacket. Actually, America was pretty sure that his jacket couldn't get any less wrinkled if Russia were taking an iron to it, but hey, if he wanted to pretend he was doing something other than feeling America up, that was cool.

"I'm sorry I missed that particular get-up," Russia told him. America groaned in exasperation as he pulled out a handkerchief and tucked it into the jacket's pocket.

"Seriously, Russia? Jeez, what the hell is up with you Europeans and handkerchiefs?"

"This is an important meeting. And it looks nice," Russia informed him, tugging the edges of the fabric out just a bit. "Besides, this is not the worst thing you could be wearing."

"I guess," America sighed, "I bet _you've_ had to wear some pretty crazy stuff, anyway."

"You have no idea…" Russia muttered, apparently satisfied that America's suit was perfect. His hand came to rest on America's shoulder. "The court outfits always itched."

"Speaking of things we'd like to see…" America trailed off. He remembered the first time he'd met Russia, his imperial navy uniform crisp and dashing. It was sequestered deep in Russia's closet now, along with several other articles of clothing that America could only assume held sentimental or historical significance for him. America would have loved to see Russia in it again—if only so he could take it off of him. Speaking of which—

"Hey, hey, I thought were putting on our clothes, not taking them off." The jacket that Russia had fussed over so much was suddenly unbuttoned, and the tie that was so carefully knotted was being loosened. Russia leaned in and pressed his forehead to America's, hands running down his shirt.

"We have time," he murmured against America's mouth, his tongue darting out to lap at America's lower lip, "And it really does look good on you."

"O-oh?" America managed. He was a little too caught up in staring into Russia's eyes to come up with a good response.

"Mmhmm." The shirt was carefully slipped off his shoulders and draped over the back of a chair.

"I, uh, I guess they're not really so bad then," America admitted, and that was the end of it.

Until after the conference, that was, when America caught Russia staring at him as he patted down the back of his dress pants and straightened his jacket. And if he exaggerated the process just a _little_ bit for effect, he was pretty sure Russia wasn't making any complaints.


End file.
